“Mannequin Funhouse is the nice way to put it,” Robbie says, by way of explaining. The Brugh is something else, and he can never put his finger on a concise explanation without resorting to evocative allegory like Antarctic Pixie Carnivale or Vampire Vulcan Vixens V. “We keep getting transported to this castle. It’s like Dracula’s castle – dark and huge, with I don’t know how many rooms and even more twisty. In the middle of it, there’s a throne room with dozens of frozen elves. It’s some sort of spell or curse, but I get the feeling they deserved it. Anyway, they look hot until you catch 'em in a mirror.”

He takes a shudder, squinting his eyes and sticks out his tongue in a reasonable imitation of Mr. Yuck. “Let’s just say beauty isn’t even skin deep. Huginn and Muninn were right to warn everybody off kissing them. Nobody wants to kiss that.”

Seriously, there isn’t enough artificial hotness in the world to dampen that warning, so he doesn’t continue to beat the uglies while they’re frozen. “The teleporting is just that. We’re being teleported. No sign of who or how.”